


How Deep, Unending

by mresundance



Category: Wallander (UK TV)
Genre: Bisexuality, Drama, M/M, Sexual Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-08
Updated: 2012-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-29 05:32:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mresundance/pseuds/mresundance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Kurt rarely allowed himself to be seen. Even if he did, those moments were but brief and passing, like an eclipse. </em>
</p><p>Kurt, Magnus, and the aftermath of events in "One Step Behind".</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Deep, Unending

The first night Kurt slept on Magnus' sofa, six hours and twenty-three minutes had elapsed since Magnus had barked: "Kurt, get _down_." The shot had crackled like thunder, punching a bloody hole clean through Louise.

Poor thing, Kurt had thought afterwards as crime scene techs crawled all over his house. It wasn't a tragedy that Louise was dead. He was, after all, a psychopath in Kurt's estimation. Outside, he heard Linda's voice rise and fall, steady and without a tremor, as she answered an officer's questions. No, Kurt thought, clarity blowing cold through him as an arctic wind.

But he couldn't stop thinking about it, even after he had been debriefed and asked to hand in his sidearm.

"Temporary," Lisa had explained.

"Why?" he had balked, but only half-heartedly. Exhaustion had robbed the world of sharpness; everything seemed incoherent around the edges, drained of light and color, like a poorly done impressionist painting. "I didn't shoot anyone. Magnus --"

"Is suspended too, pending an inquiry. Now Kurt, you know it's procedure --"

"Right," he put his sidearm on her desk. "Fine. _Procedure._ "

He wandered in the lobby of the Ystad station for awhile, watching the summer shadows stretch. Linda had already taken a train back to her mother's, of course, and they would probably question her again later. His house was still a crime scene. His wallet hadn't a single kroner in it. He'd a bank card on him, though expired, his mobile, driver's license, and badge, but nothing else except his clothes and a wild, barren sadness and relief dragging at him. Kalle was dead (of course he was dead, Kurt snapped at himself); Anne-Brit was at home with her husband and kids; Lisa wouldn't want to deal with him right now; and he, Kurt, did not want to deal with his father right now, even if he needed a place to go. It had to be Magnus, then, Kurt thought dully before calling on his mobile.

Kurt was still mulling over Louise as he pressed the buzzer to Magnus' flat. As he heard Magnus' tread, Kurt thought for the _nth_ time that he wasn't sad about Louise's death. His death was not the sad part.

"Thanks," Kurt mumbled when Magnus opened the door.

"Don't mention it," Magnus said tiredly.

The sad part was, Kurt thought as he followed Magnus in -- how did it? Magnus indicated where the bathroom and the kitchen were, threw a few blankets at Kurt and went down a short hallway, shutting his bedroom door behind him. Kurt unfolded the blankets carefully, slowly, thinking --how did it _feel_?-- the light outside thinning until the sky finally began to darken. How did it? -- he thought drowsily as he climbed onto the sofa.

How did it feel to love someone who did not love you back?

* * *

Over the next two days, both men came and went to the station for interviews and follow-up reports. When he'd time, Kurt took a few meals at Fridolfs konditori, or from a vending machine at the station. He made several calls to Linda, many of which ended with her trying to reassure him. "Dad, it's ok. I'm ok dad," she told him over and over.

Magnus went several rounds with internal affairs and the special prosecutor while his official inquiry was underway. But he and Kurt barely spoke to one another. When they finally did, it was back at Magnus' flat, three days after the shooting.

"Oh my god Kurt, you _reek_." Magnus sat on one end of the sofa, hunched over his personal laptop. On the other end, Kurt sat flipping through television stations.

"Could you _please_ just fucking take a shower already?" Magnus glared.

"Okay," Kurt conceded, mostly because he was tired and also because it was Magnus' flat he was slumming in.

Magnus' flat on Hejdegatan was beautiful and austere, the walls featureless and white, floors pale hardwood, furniture immaculate except for the sofa, which was a putrid, vomit colored green. There was a gouge in the hardwood near the bathroom which made Magnus' mouth wrinkle with distaste.

"Previous tenants," he explained, giving Kurt a set of towels. "Haven't had time to fix it."

Kurt grunted.

"Oh and this," Magnus gave him a squimjim. "Scrape out the shower." He said it with a bit of relish, Kurt thought, like he was giving an order.

It humored Kurt a bit as he entered the bathroom, to think that their roles had reversed. Now he was on Magnus' turf and Magnus -- ever the whiny shit he was, no matter how competent an investigator -- would certainly enjoy having the chance to boss Kurt around.

The shower was pristine as the rest of the flat. Between the gleaming white tiles and shining glass door, nothing was marred by even the mildest of mineral buildup. It made Kurt feel additionally filthy as he shrugged out of his clothes, reeking of alcohol, sweat and the faint aftershock of blood and panic.

The water was warm, just right, and he nearly fell asleep on his aching feet. Because he wasn't as tall as Magnus, Kurt struggled with the scraping, unable reach all the way to the top of the glass door and the tiling. He did the best he could before wrapping himself in a towel and wondering if he should redress in his filthy clothes.

"You're getting water everywhere -- " Magnus fumed at the trail Kurt dribbled from the bathroom to the sitting room.

"I don't have any clothes," Kurt answered vaguely. "Clean ones, at least."

Magnus made a noise and leapt up, scrambling to his bedroom and back. "Borrow my robe," he snapped, throwing it at Kurt.

"Sorry."

"Never mind," Magnus grumbled. And then: "Is your house open yet?"

"I dunno," Kurt said. Without removing the towel, he wrapped himself in Magnus' robe. It was steel blue, almost the same color as Magnus' eyes. It smelled like mint, and coffee with too much sugar.

"You don't know?" Magnus looked at Kurt with the same expression that a harried schoolteacher might reserve for a particularly aggravating student.

The mint smell on the robe was Magnus' aftershave, Kurt realized, something which both shocked and pleased him for some reason.

"Hasn't Lisa said yet?" Magnus asked when Kurt didn't say anything. Magnus covered his face in his hands and sighed.

"Fine, I'll call Lisa and if your house is still a crime scene we'll wash your clothes or burn them or _something_."

You saved my daughter's life, Kurt thought, a lump hardening in his throat. If the thought had been tangible it would have been glass-sharp. He would have cut himself and bled all over that soft blue robe the same color as Magnus' eyes. All over Magnus' clean wood floors and fresh white tiles.

"Your flat is nice," Kurt hiccupped through tears. "It's very clean."

Magnus looked at him strangely. "I'm never home," he said and turned to his laptop. "I work too fucking much to be home," Magnus explained. Kurt actually laughed.

* * *

Kurt's house was still being processed and as Kurt had no kroner or clean clothes, Magnus took his clothes down to the launderette a few blocks away.

"You owe me," he seethed, tossing articles of fresh laundry at Kurt. "You _so_ owe me."

"Thanks," Kurt said, trying not to smile. "I'll let you have the lead on the next case, yeah?"

"How about the next _five_ ," Magnus growled. "Hungry?" he asked.

"Yes. Thank you. For everything. I guess."

Magnus rolled his eyes as he opened his refrigerator, reveling white shelves stacked with pristine white boxes of takeaway.

"Behold," Magnus said. "My takeaway menagerie. Yet another by-product of my work hours."

"Well done?" Kurt said. He almost said he was diabetic as well, but decided he was too tired to wrestle with that problem right now. Right now what he wanted was leftover takeaway, going down his gullet, greasy and salty. And the beer Magnus offered, cold and frothy. And he wanted to forget about the last few days -- everything since the shooting, really -- and even from a little bit before.

They slumped on the sofa, eating, drinking, and watching horrible television while the sun descended and the stars begin to freckle the sky outside.

"This sofa is putrid Magnus," Kurt said. He forgot how many beers he'd had, but it was enough to make him feel loose and disjointed. Sleepy in a comforting way instead of a soul-weary way.

"Fuck you Kurt," Magnus said, sharp elbow digging into Kurt's doughy stomach.

"Ow," Kurt complained.

Magnus snorted.

"If you hate work so much, why don't you get a different job? Or transfer?" Kurt asked as they flipped through the evening news.

"I don’t hate my work." Magnus sounded affronted. "Why do you say that?"

"I dunno. You just keep saying how you work so many hours all the time."

Magnus' jaw bunched and his lips drew a taut line of frustration.

"What?" Kurt said.

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing." Magnus crossed his arms.

"Fine."

Kurt took deep draught of beer.

"Kurt."

"What?"

"How was it that you didn't have any bullets?"

Kurt cringed.

"I dunno."

"You. Don't. Know. How the fuck don't you know if your gun is loaded or not? Has any rounds left?"

"I don't know," Kurt shouted. "Just fucking leave it."

Magnus grumbled something and sighed.

"Probably better me than you anyways," he said finally, voice still rigid with resentment.

"Why?"

"If you had shot the -- suspect -- the inquiry would go on for months."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're a fucking mess, that's what."

Magnus stabbed the television remote with his thumb.

"At least if it's me, they'll just be investigating that it wasn't tainted by hate crime or discrimination or whatever," Magnus threw the remote down.

"What?"

"I did call the suspect a tranny," Magnus snarled. "Everyone heard me. That is definitely going in the report."

"Well, yes." Kurt didn't particularly feel sorry for Magnus on this point.

"I didn't want to shoot him," Magnus said. "Even if -- _fuck_."

Magnus' profile, half illumed by television light, fractured with stress.

"You did what you had to." Even Kurt thought his own words sounded idiotic.

"Really?"

"I'm glad you shot him."

Magnus' face went smooth with shock.

"You shouldn't say that Kurt."

"I am glad."

He thought of Linda and he could have wept all over again; he could not even place into words what he felt, as a father whose daughter had nearly died in front of him while he stood helpless to do anything. He could not place into words how he felt towards Magnus for being the one who saved her -- and himself -- by proxy.

But he also felt shame and fidgeted with his wedding band.

"The irony," Magnus continued, "is that I'm not -- oh fuck. Nevermind." He held his face in his hands.

"What?" Kurt said.

The air between them felt sticky; wet and weighted. Magnus stood up and opened a window. A wind breathed the scent of sea-salt and the heat dissipated a little.

"Forget it," Magnus said, his reflection in the window bone white, bright against the darkening blue of the sky outside.

* * *

Kurt lay on the sofa, twisting his ring, assembling pieces in his mind the way he did with a case.

During the investigation, Magnus had said: "This whole thing's a mess of secrets. And -- Louise -- biggest secret of the lot," a hitch in his voice. Kurt had thought it was revulsion at the time -- clean cut, the way straight men are conditioned to despise homosexuality -- but now Kurt couldn't tell.

"Kalle -- loved you," Louise had said, face soft with -- compassion? Pity? Kurt couldn't have told. "And you didn't even _see_ him. I was nothing."

Kurt's wedding band twisted and fell off, landing soundlessly. Kurt grunted, and, thumping to the floor, crawled around looking for the stupid thing. He was still looking as the stars became faint whispers of light and a line of pink and gold shone against the horizon. Kurt thudded against something and Magnus' snoring from the bedroom stopped.

"Kurt, what the hell are you doing?" Magnus crossed his arms, wearing the blue robe. Kurt wondered if the robe smelled a little like himself now -- a clean version of himself -- not the dirty one.

"What did you mean by what you said earlier?"

"What did I say earlier?"

"I mean, what you didn't say."

Magnus' features tightened.

"I told you to forget it. It's not a big deal, really."

"Okay," Kurt shrugged. He crouched in the dark, like a kneeling penitent.

Magnus sighed.

"Fine. The big fat irony is I'm bisexual," he said, looking out the window.

"Oh," Kurt said.

"It's not a big deal," Magnus insisted.

"Not. I didn't say it was," Kurt said.

The silence lapped between them, deep and cold and black as an ocean.

"I don't exactly tell everybody," Magnus said finally.

"I won't tell anyone."

"Christ, it's fucked up. This shooting. I'm not really different than Louise, or Kalle, I can't -- what the hell are you doing?"

"Oh," Kurt said. "Sorry. I. Lost my wedding band."

Magnus sighed. "All right."

He turned on the lights and joined Kurt on the hardwood. The sun rose slowly, stripping the cooling, comforting lavenders and violets of the night. Everything felt naked.

"There's too much daylight in the summer," Kurt complained as he groped under the sofa.

"Found it," Magnus said, curling back a rug. Both men stood. Magnus held the ring out and it gleamed white in the morning light.

"Thanks," Kurt said and took it. He had sometimes wondered why Magnus irritated him so. As he put his wedding band back on his finger -- it did not slide easily -- Kurt thought he knew.

He looked down, because his eyes kept tracing the V of fine, tanned skin that the collar of Magnus' robe made.

"I am too, you know," he admitted and it felt like setting something very heavy down.

"What?"

"Like you. And Kalle. And Louise." Each name spoken more quietly than the last.

The exasperation in Magnus' face melted, replaced with an expression like -- shock? Revelation?

"You?" he stammered.

"Yes," Kurt twisted his ring.

"Oh." Magnus sounded winded. Then his face creased with bewilderment.

"But you were -- married," he said. "Is that why you divorced?"

"No," Kurt snapped. "Don't be stupid."

Magnus' face crumpled.

"I just thought . . . "

"You didn't. _Think._ "

"Obviously," Magnus muttered.

Typical, Magnus, Kurt thought.

They stood without speaking for awhile and then decided to go back to sleep, Kurt on the couch and Magnus to his bed.

"You should get some curtains," Kurt complained as he wriggled back onto the sofa, under his nest of blankets. It was already bright, though it was only four in the morning.

"My asshole supervisor should give me some leave so I'd have time to find curtains and install them," Magnus retorted from the hall.

* * *

Of course Kurt had loved (still loved) Inga. There was never a question of that in Kurt's mind. The questions had been, more or less: _why can't I stop looking at that man_ and _why does that man's smell linger so_ and _why should the sound of his voice make me feel like -- I don't even know --_ and _why do I keep thinking of his hands? His lips? The line of his throat?_ and _would I even be attractive to him if . . . ?_ and _would he even see me?_

His heart had contracted when Louise had said: "You don't even see him." Because that had been Kurt's life for the last thirty-six years. Of seeing other men -- of looking at them with longing which called out to him the way a lighthouse beacon calls out to ships at sea -- and not being seen. Or not allowing himself to be seen.

Kurt rarely allowed himself to be seen. Even if he did -- with Linda, his father, with Inga, or Ella, or Isa, or now, Magnus -- those moments were but brief and passing, like an eclipse.

He had admitted that he was like Kalle, and Louise, and Magnus. But he had not admitted that Magnus was the first person he had ever told.

* * *

A few hours later they both rose, sun already too hot and too high to allow them more sleep. Everything felt comfortably warm to Kurt, like waking up on a cold winter morning, cocooned in blankets as ice patterns laced across the window. He couldn't remember the last morning he had felt such calm and such peace.

Magnus whistled as he rooted through his refrigerator, the both of them not quite smiling with their shared secrets. Magnus' robe hung loose off that long frame of his, calves the same color as brown sugar in the morning sun.

"It seems a little weird, though, doesn't it?" Magnus asked. "You, me, _and_ Kalle? That has got to be some record. It's like we're Sweden's token gay police department."

Kurt snorted.

"I wonder if anyone else in the Ystad department is?" Magnus looked over his shoulder, golden hair so wild it seemed exotic. Kurt wanted to run his fingers through it and feel those curls snag against his wedding band.

"I dunno," Kurt shrugged.

"Of course you don’t know," Magnus drawled, ever the arrogant young shit.

"Shut up," Kurt said mildly. And then: "Is that an actual tomato?" He blinked at the object in question, luridly red against the white countertops.

"Yep," Magnus said.

"Magnus, have you been holding back from me?"

"Yes Kurt, I totally have a whole stash of tomatoes in a secret compartment which I have been keeping from you." Magnus laid a few plates with slices of bread and cheese before cutting the tomato.

"You're not planning to poison me then? Tempting me with actual food?"

"Kurt, if I wanted to kill you I would have thrown you off a building or down a flight of stairs and said you were a clumsy bastard."

"Oh right."

Magnus pushed one of the plates towards Kurt.

"I would too, if I were my own boss," Kurt said.

Magnus snorted.

"I whine and moan a lot but it could be worse."

"Yes well, I don't make it easy," Kurt said before taking a bite of his smörgås. He said the words carelessly, though, and realized that a second too late.

Magnus tensed. "No, really?" he quipped. Annoyed, yes, exasperated even. And then something else in his features; something softer and yet heartbreakingly intense.

It reminded Kurt of a case. A fifteen year old boy, Jens Engman, whose girlfriend, Anna Kron, had slipped on the docks and drowned in the harbor. Tragic accident, no foul play. But he remembered Jen's face when he talked about Anna, the way the boy's body had quivered with unspent longing. Not just lust but a kind of adoration.

He was lovestruck, Kurt thought, looking at Magnus. The smell of coffee, heady and sultry, blossomed through the kitchen as Magnus poured two cups.

"Black?"

"Yeah," Kurt wrapped his stubby fingers around the cup. He felt suddenly as drained and wavery as his own reflection in the steaming black-brown liquid.

"Kurt," Magnus said. "You all right?"

"Why don't you leave?" Kurt asked carefully, in the same voice he used to discuss sensitive details with upset witnesses and family members. "I mean, really?"

"Oh come on Kurt, this isn't something we should discuss --"

"Why not?"

"Well, you are my supervisor."

"Pretend I'm not -- just for now," Kurt said when Magnus began to roll his eyes. "We're both on suspension anyway, so right now we're not."

"Do you really think I am that naïve Kurt?" Magnus sneered.

"No, I don't mean it that way -- I just mean -- I dunno."

Kurt drank his coffee. Magnus crossed his arms.

"Why would I leave Kurt? Do you want me to leave?" Magnus' voice had a small tremor which Kurt almost didn't hear, except he saw the way Magnus' adam's apple bobbed. As if he were swallowing something sharp.

"No, that is not what I'm saying at all," Kurt said. "I just mean. If I make it so hard for you, why do you put up with it?"

Kurt's phone rang and Magnus' followed.

"Wallander."

"Yeah, Martinsson."

They held their separate conversations. Magnus sighed as he hung up, drawing his fingers through his hair.

"I have to go in and talk to the special prosecutor some more," Magnus said, eyes vague and unfocused. "What was your call?"

"Oh. They've cleared my house."

"Don't sound too happy Kurt."

"What?"

"You just sounded like someone had died. You can make anything maudlin," Magnus stood. "Right. I have to go down to the station."

"Should I just let myself out then?" Kurt asked of Magnus as he retreated to his bedroom.

Magnus paused.

"Yeah," he said after a minute. "Yeah. If you want."

The bedroom door shut behind him. Kurt went to the sofa and began wadding up his clothes. He grew tired after a few minutes and ended up curled back on the sofa, under his blankets. He fell asleep and didn't hear Magnus leave.

* * *

Neither did he hear Magnus return. Kurt woke with the afternoon sun pouring into his face, making his forehead itch. Drowsily he thought, crap, I should have cleared out. He heard a gasp. Rising, he became more aware of the world: Magnus' shoes near the door; pigeons outside, a car heaving reluctantly to life; and down the hall, sharp intakes of breath.

He rose and his head still felt fluff stuffed instead of brain-stuffed; he was a clumsy thing of wooden joints and a ragged jowl as he leaned in the doorway of Magnus' bedroom.

"Magnus?" he asked. For Magnus' long, slender body was folded up, back against the bed, knees to chest. He held his head in his hands and looked abysmal, Kurt thought.

"Is everything okay?"

"Everything is not okay," Magnus bristled, wiping his face, silver-blue eyes sensitive and pink around the edges. "I fucking _killed_ somenone. Jesus Christ." He folded his hands between his legs as if defeated.

Kurt didn't know what to say to that, so he didn't say anything.

"You know why I stay Kurt?"

"Why do you stay Magnus?" Kurt asked, sitting on the bed. His knee brushed Magnus' shoulder and neither of them seemed to notice.

"Because I love it," Magnus looked up at Kurt, face up-side down. "I love it. I know you wouldn't think so, but I love being a cop. And I'm good at it too. And I won't let you take that from me. I know I'm not as good as you --"

"You're a good cop Magnus," Kurt said. "Sometimes bad things happen."

Magnus' up-side down face puckered and water turned his eyes translucent. A tear ran down his cheek. He looked like those Greek sculptures in the Louvre, perfect marble and cold. But when Kurt reached out and wiped the tear from Magnus' cheek, his flesh yielded; it burned, still damp from earlier tears.

Magnus grabbed Kurt's shirt, pulling him down into a jumble of limbs, agile hands, lips and teeth and tongue, pulling Kurt apart even as they collided.

"Magnus," Kurt grimaced when Magnus' teeth cut his lip. "Magnus," he managed, trying to push the younger man away. "We should maybe not -- "

Magnus wound a long arm around Kurt's waist, securing him.

"Shut up," Magnus said between kisses, rolling on top.

Kurt shut his eyes, meaning to resist, to shut himself away from this as he had so many things in his life. But he could feel Magnus' hands under his shirt, smoothing warm tracks up his sides. He could not lock out how his lips worried his neck, or his hands slid between his thighs. And how Magnus' whole body arced over him as he unzipped Kurt's jeans, pulled the waist of his pants down, and took him in his warm, steady palm.

That same palm had cradled a gun, Kurt thought as their kisses softened and he let his mouth open. Kurt felt his spine bending, body melting into the pressure and rhythm of Magnus' hand. That hand had been so steady as his finger squeezed the trigger, once, twice. You saved my daughter, Kurt thought, tremors running through him. He made a little noise as he came, blinking white stars from his vision, Magnus' breath gusting over his face and throat. Kurt felt vaguely guilty when he heard Magnus unzip his own jeans and finish himself -- quickly, with a little whimper -- whole body going slack atop him. Kurt ran lazy fingers through Magnus' hair.

"Never done that," Kurt said absently, twining a golden curl between his thumb and forefinger.

"Huh?" Magnus said, face nestled against his throat. When Magnus blinked his eyelashes sent shivers through Kurt's body.

"I mean I've never," Kurt gestured vaguely. "With another man."

Magnus lifted himself off. "Kurt, why didn't you say?"

"Well I just did."

Magnus tossed his head and slid back down.

"I thought," Magnus said.

"I messed around a bit, when I was a teenager, but I've never. Had actual sex. If that's what just happened."

Magnus laughed.

"What," Kurt grumbled.

Magnus kissed him, wrapping both arms around him as best he could, knotting their legs together and embracing Kurt with his whole body.

"I guess," he said, kissing one of Kurt's eyebrows, "we'll have to do this properly then, won't we?" His voice had a husky pitch, and his hands, broad and capable, began pressing against Kurt.

"What -- right now?"

Magnus sucked on his earlobe and Kurt could see the mischievous wrinkles in the corners of his eyes.

"I'm an old man. Get off!" Kurt laughed, pushing at Magnus. "I need a minute."

"Or a thousand." Magnus nipped his earlobe before releasing him and rolling onto his back, grinning devilishly. It was something Kurt had not seen before in Magnus. He paused, allowing himself to savor it.

"I'm going to the loo," Kurt said finally, tucking himself and zipping his jeans.

"Alright," Magnus rose, flopping into bed. "I'll be here," he announced, laying on his side and posing as if he were a nude in a painting. Kurt rolled his eyes and threw a dismissive wave in Magnus' direction.

The bathroom was cold and too small, the afternoon light blinding. In the mirror Kurt was pale as chalk and he looked so unspeakably tired he wanted to punch his reflection.

"What are you doing?" he asked himself and thought of Magnus' lips and mouth, his hands, his lean body and wild curls.

"Kurt?" Magnus called down the hall. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Kurt said vaguely, knuckles ashen against the sink. "Be right there," he said softly.

He drank some water from the tap. He stopped at the sofa, fumbling his mobile into his pocket. He slid his feet into his shoes and found his keys, quickly, quietly, he went out with a gentle _click_ , locking Magnus' door behind him.

* * *

His mobile rang several times during the twenty minute drive between Ystad and Mossbystrand beach. Kurt ignored it, letting the countryside blur by: the broken fences and forgotten farms, long grasses burnt golden in the summer sun.

The beach itself was abandoned, which surprised him, but it felt like a small kindness to walk alone.

He used to take Linda there, when she was little and still looked at him as if he were the sun and the moon. Now he watched storm-clouds roiling in from the sea, the same frothy color Magnus' eyes had been after he'd shot Louise.

Kurt sat down in the sand, twisting his wedding band. The wind beat the waves and they crested and foamed against the shore. Distantly, his mobile rang again. The air sizzled with moisture.

He'd once spoken to a woman who lost her husband in a car accident. Lydia Storfjell. She had said it hurt so much to love. It hurt _too_ much. Her words had cleaved clean through Kurt. Yes, he'd wanted to say and enfold her hands in his. Yes.

It had hurt when he looked into Inga's face and seen how she looked at him, affection radiating out of her like a single star in the coal dark belly of winter. It had hurt when Linda had come into the world, purple and slimy and disgusting, actually. Looking at her, his whole heart had collapsed; in that moment, his life emptied of purpose except for that aching love.

It had hurt too, when Inga had told him it was over and packed her things. He'd spent long nights wandering up and down the halls of their house. Without her clothes in the closet, her scent, her footsteps, her things cluttering their bathroom, the house had felt abandoned. He'd wandered, wine yowling in his ears, wondering what all those years together had meant. Had they been worth it if he went to sleep at night, alone in his chair?

Abuse and rape survivors had told him about how they were hurt and he allowed himself to imagine that, and how it would change his life and who he was. When bodies were discovered and Nyberg rattled off their causes of death, Kurt thought about how it would feel to die of a stab wound, a gunshot, arson, poison, strangulation. When family members wept for a lost loved one, he tried to imagine how it would feel to lose his dad, or Linda.

It hurt. So like a crustacean, Kurt curled back into his shell, protecting his soft belly. He was so, so tender. He felt everything.

Salt bit his cheeks. The spray had turned to rain and he sat drenched, clothes sopping as he climbed into his car and drove back to Ystad.

At home he ignored the pile of mail in the front hall and the residual brown smudges of blood on his floor. He stripped his wet clothes and took a shower. He poured himself some wine and fell asleep, coiled in his chair which smelled old and uncomfortable.

* * *

His ringing mobile woke him. Kurt blinked. Late morning sunlight ran crimson over the windowsill.

"Wallander."

"Kurt, what the fuck," Magnus said. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," Kurt said, half into the arm of his chair.

"You just disappeared." Magnus sounded small and lost.

"Yeah. I needed some space I guess."

"Okay. You could've just said. You scared the shit out of me."

"Sorry," Kurt said, rubbing his face and grimacing.

"Where are you?"

"Home."

"Do you want me to come over?" Magnus' voice brimful with hope. Kurt closed his eyes and told himself not to think about it.

"No. Magnus. I'm fine."

"Are you sure Kurt? I could just pop 'round --"

"I said I'm fine."

He tried not to imagine Magnus' face -- sometimes so sharp and determined -- but now soft and even a bit naïve. The eyes bright with hurt.

"Okay. Then. See you. Later?"

"Yeah," Kurt said.

He listened to the drone of their disconnected phones for a second before pushing the button to end the call.

It's for the best, he told himself, pouring more wine.

* * *

Their suspensions were lifted. Kurt's after he barely passed a psychological evaluation, and Magnus' after the special prosecutor determined that he had followed procedure and a police psychologist said he was fit for duty.

The first few weeks were full of sullen silences and sudden explosions. One afternoon Kurt and Magnus fought over whether a sixteen year old girl, Karin Persson, was a missing person or not.

"Kids leave all the time --" Magnus said.

"Yeah, without telling anyone?" Kurt retorted, not looking up from a stack of paperwork.

"People leave. That's what they do, isn't it Kurt?" Magnus said, voice vibrating with condescension.

Kurt flinched but didn't look up. "It might not be so simple. Maybe you'd know, Magnus, if you didn't ignore evidence --"

"What evidence? What is that supp --"

"Enough," Lisa barked. "Both of you. In my office. Now."

They followed, bent headed and stooped shouldered.

"What the hell is the matter with you two? The way you're carrying on you'd think you were lovers."

Magnus lips puckered.

"It's nothing," Kurt said.

"Yeah," Magnus said. "Totally."

"Well, whatever it is," Lisa's eyes hopped from one to the other. "Sort it out."

She left.

Magnus sighed.

"Well," Kurt said.

"Let's just leave it." Magnus' voice was so brittle, fragile as the first frost of autumn.

"I wasn't going to say anything," Kurt said.

Magnus looked at Kurt. He didn't glare, or sulk. But his expression was peculiar, and reminded Kurt very much of Louise's when he said that Kalle had loved him. As if Kurt were a pitiable creature.

"Of course you weren't," Magnus said before striding out.

* * *

A few hours later they drove down to Karin's house. There was tension between them still, but less sharp. Give it a few weeks, Kurt thought, tapping the steering wheel and hearing his wedding band clink. In a few weeks their animosity would resume its old, indifferent patterns.

For some reason this made him sad and the feeling dragged at him as they questioned Karin's mother, Julia.

"She went out a few nights ago with friends," Julia said. A tall, painfully thin woman, she stood at the kitchen window, wringing her bony hands. Behind her, sunlight rippled off the sea.

"Does Karin do that normally?" Kurt asked. Magnus huffed as if to say _what an obvious question_.

"Yes," Julia said. "Why hasn't she come back? Where has gone?"

"We're trying to figure that out. Now did Karin or any of her friends say where they were going?"

"To a friend's house," Julia said angrily. "I told you this before, didn't I?"

"Yes, but we're just confirming details. Can you tell us that friend's address?"

She did, body trembling with indignation.

"Did she have a boyfriend by chance?"

"Or a girlfriend," Magnus added.

Kurt glared at him. They held each other's gaze a little too long.

"What -- no --" Julia's lips peeled back. Disgust? "No. What does this have to do with anything?"

"We have to pursue every possibility," Magnus said.

"But what does that have to do with my daughter?" the mother shrilled.

Kurt felt for her, of course. But he also wanted to shake this woman. And Magnus. Mostly Magnus.

They finally finished questioning Julia and went through Karin's bedroom. On the girl's desktop, Magnus found several emails where the girl spoke of leaving -- where she would go, with who, how, and when.

"Runaway," Magnus said smugly as they walked back to Kurt's car. "Just like I said."

"Certainly seems so," Kurt replied, and the wind blowing in from the sea kicked up.

"You don't suspect anything?" Magnus asked, face sharpening in that way of his. Like a dog who's scented a bone, Magnus and his juvenile hankering for police excitement. Kurt looked at him.

"Okay, fine, she's just a runaway. I'm considering all the options," Magnus muttered. "Like you said."

They walked the rest of the way in silence. Their bodies leaned towards one another, but they did not touch. The salty air between them was thick and burning, but no matter, Kurt thought, no matter.

**Author's Note:**

> Title borrowed from James Joyce's "On the Beach at Fontana":
>
>> Wind whines and whines the shingle,  
> The crazy pierstakes groan;  
> A senile sea numbers each single  
> Slimesilvered stone.
>> 
>> From whining wind and colder  
> Grey sea I wrap him warm  
> And touch his trembling fineboned shoulder  
> And boyish arm.
>> 
>> Around us fear, descending  
> Darkness of fear above  
> And in my heart how deep unending  
> Ache of love!


End file.
